


The Experiment

by molieretzu



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Beelzebub is mean to Gabriel, Gabriel actually consumes a bit of gross matter, Gabriel is gross matter anyway, Gen, I just enjoy being mean to Gabriel because he's a bastard, Ineffable Bureaucracy (Good Omens), Just Beelzebub being themself, Mild Swearing, No beta we fall like Crowley, Other, Passing references to violence, Scheming, They/Them Pronouns for Beelzebub, alcohol consumption, and I suspect he kind of likes it actually, and not a fun bastard like Aziraphale, fictober19, nothing graphic though
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-02
Updated: 2019-10-10
Packaged: 2020-11-15 06:48:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,059
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20861990
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/molieretzu/pseuds/molieretzu
Summary: Beelzebub and Gabriel reluctantly collaborate to figure out how the traitors survived their executions. Most of the reluctance (and swearing, and threats of violence) is on Beelz's side.Prompts #2 and #10 for Fictober19.





	1. Hatching

**Author's Note:**

> Another drabble for Fictober19. No beta, so goodness knows what egregious errors I've missed.

“This izz stupid,” Beelzebub grumbled. “I feel ridiculous dressed like this.”

“Come on! I think you look cute. And you have to admit that it’s a great disguise.”

“Our ideas of what constitutes a great disguise obviously differ.” 

Gabriel just turned up the volume of his fluff-headed grin. He was wearing his self-described “hipster” disguise; the full beard was particularly egregious. The only thing Beelzebub could console themself with was that few people would notice their own normcore white-tee-and-jeans disguise when they were standing next to a Heavenly atrocity like that.

“Let’s just get on with it.”

“As you wish. Just follow me; I know the area.” After a few seconds, Gabriel actually remembered to rein in his stride so the shorter demon could keep up without having to trot.

“So your people have learned nothing about the traitors?” Beelzebub said.

“As I said. Tons of collaboration and other nefarious activity, of course — enough to merit a long detention at the least if he were still on Heaven’s books — but nothing indicating how they survived the executions. Yours?”

“There izz a zzlight difficulty in getting our agents to volunteer,” they admitted. Controlling their buzzing was always harder when they were stressed. “Those who have been conscripted have reported nothing notable. Beyond disgusting amounts of fraternizing with the angel, of course.”

Gabriel harrumphed. “Our respective field agents aren’t up to the job. That’s why I think we should try another way. There we are; that’s it ahead.”

At first glance, the pub did not look entirely reputable. The sign was almost illegible, but Beelzebub thought it read “The Mended Drum.” They weren’t sure whether Gabriel had chosen such a dilapidated pub out of ignorance, or in a misplaced attempt to make the demon feel more at home. If he thought they’d drop their guard in shabby, Hell-like surroundings, he was even more of a moron than they’d thought.

“It’ll do; certainly the traitors would never come to a pit like this.” Beelzebub stalked across the street to a pub, ignoring the traffic; cars had better sense than to strike them, even if the drivers didn’t. They plopped down on one of the chairs by the al fresco tables and sprawled with all the insolence they could muster. “This will do. Mine’s a Talisker, rocks.”

Gabriel made no move to sit or to head to the bar. “What’s a Talisker rocks?”

“It’s what I want to drink, you pillock. Whisky, on ice.”

“You consume gross matter?”

“You’re gross matter, and I’m stuck talking to you; I think that earnzz me a drink. Or several.” The archangel looked wounded, if confused, and Beelzebub relented a little. “The drink will help us blend in. Get one for yourself, too. You don’t have to drink it, just hold it.”

It turned out that Gabriel chose to hold a double gin and tonic.

“So what exactly is this ‘other way,’ wankwings?”

“Ah.” Gabriel fiddled with his glass. “I thought maybe we’re going about this the wrong way. Spying.”

“How else are we supposed to find out how the traitorzz survived?”

“By experiment.” Seeing their blank reaction, Gabriel continued, “It’s a human thing, apparently, a way to figure out how things work. I know it’s disgraceful to be reduced to using human techniques, but traditional approaches aren’t getting us anywhere.”

There were a few scientists in Hell (a particularly large wave had come through after the humans’ World War II), and Beelzebub had heard rumors of their methods; Hell had gotten a lot of new ideas. “Zzo you want to inject a bunch of angels and demons with poisons, and see how long it takes them to mutate like the traitorzz?”

“Not exactly, but that’s an intriguing idea. I was thinking more of a behavioral experiment: an angel and a demon spending a lot of time together. We know the traitors fraternized for a long time before things came to a head. Maybe that’s how they gained their resistance: long-term exposure.”

“Hmm, maybe. But getting volunteers would be difficult. Even conscripts might wind up attacking their counterparts.”

“I don’t think we want the rank and file knowing about this. They need to believe we’ve got things under control.”

“Good point. If they knew we were having problemzz, there might be . . . discontent.”

Gabriel grinned. “All reasons why the choice of subjects is obvious.  _ We _ should do it!”

Beelzebub choked on their whisky. “What?”

“Think about it: we already, er, tolerate each other. No one else would need to know about the experiment. If we get found out, we’re both high-ranking enough to convince anyone that it’s just a top-secret project involving coordination with the Enemy.”

“Which is would be,” Beelzebub reminded him grimly. “So you’d want me to tell the truth? To my demons?”

“Good point. But you’re powerful enough to sell them whatever lie you wanted. Plus, it might actually be kind of fun for you. I’ve been told I’m very witty and excellent company.”

“You’re a prat and a zzmug, zzelf-zzatisfied clothezz horzze without an original thought in your pretty little head,” Beelzebub retorted, then reluctantly added, “But you did do a good job gaslighting your own traitor. He was pretty messed up in the head, I’ve heard.”

“You think my head is pretty?”

“It would be pretty sitting on my desk as a paperweight,” they said automatically, but with no real heat. The angel was incredibly annoying, but poking at him and trying to get a rise out of him was kind of enjoyable. And a break in their routine couldn’t hurt. “All right: we can give it a try.”

Gabriel lit up. “Excellent!”

“But I reserve the right to kill you if you get on my nervezz too much.”

“Noted. And I, of course, reserve the right to smite you if you try your demonly wiles on me.”

“Agreed. To our Experiment, then.” Beelzebub raised their whisky, then explained, “It’s a toast. You raise your glasses and clink the edges together, then drink. It’s a human thing. The traitors like human things, so it makes sense for us to try them, too.”

“Urgh.” Gabriel hesitated, but clinked his G&T against their glass. “To our Experiment.” He gave his drink a distrustful sip, and perked up.

“You know, I think you’re right: we should include lots of human things. Human things like alcohol, particularly.” 

“Lots and lots of alcohol,” Beelzebub agreed. “I think we’ll need it.”


	2. Push Off

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fictober19 prompt #10: Listen, I can't explain it to you. You have to trust me.
> 
> Gabriel and Beelzebub meet in Regent's Park to pursue their experiment. It goes about as well as expected.
> 
> (Note: I dropped Beelz's stress-induced buzzing, because it was driving me crazzzzy. If that's a problem, I'll revise with extra buzzes when they're particularly annoyed, but that might mean all their lines are just a bunch of zzzzs.)

Beelzebub was losing patience with this whole scheme. They hadn’t had a lot to begin with, but the stupid archangel somehow knew how to get on every last one of their nerves. It would be admirable if he were a demon.

“How about jogging?” Gabriel suggested.

“How about I rip out your spleen and eat it in front of your gormless face?”

Silence fell again at their little table in the Regent’s Park bar. Technically the place served food as well, but one of the first ground rules they’d established was that these little outings absolutely had to involve alcohol. The goal was to test the hypothesis that the traitors’ impossible abilities stemmed from them having spent more time together than any other angel and demon, and had sort of rubbed off on each other (_Satan,_ _I did _not_ need that mental image_), and Beelzebub would be thrice blessed if they’d go through all that without some sort of anaesthetic.

The traitors were known to frequent St. James’s Park. Beelzebub doubted that the park had anything to do with the transformations, but it was an easy meeting location. Regent’s Park reduced the chances of being spotted by Aziraphale and Crowley, and had better amenities anyway: St. James’s didn’t have a proper bar.

“What is a spleen, anyway?”

“Red blobby bit, up in here,” Beelzebub gestured at their ribs. “Can’t tell you what it does, but it makes a gorgeous mess when you pull it out of a human. You have to reach up, under the ribs, like this.”

Gabriel wrinkled his nose. “Huh. So that’s a definite no on the jogging. Feeding the ducks? Our Earth Observation people tell me the traitors do that a lot.”

“What do you think?”

Gabriel’s violet eyes dropped to his glass of cabernet. “I think you’re about to say, ‘only if I can feed your spleen to the ducks.’”

“Smart boy. Why can’t we just stay here and drink?”

“I’m still getting accustomed to consuming gross matter. Besides, we’re here: we might as well enjoy ourselves a bit.”

Beelzebub glared at him over their wineglass. “This is me, enjoying myself. As much as I can, under the circumstances. With the company.”

“Oh, come on, let’s do something!” Gabriel was putting on his Labrador puppy act now, friendly and charming and devious. What a waste: he would have made a fantastic demon with manipulation skills like that.

Beelzebub drawled, “Suggest something that won’t make me want to kill you, and maybe we can do it.”

“Excellent.” Gabriel consulted the _Things to Do in Regent’s Park_ pamphlet he’d picked up, because of course he had. “Ooh, they have netball!”

“I am not doing anything with you that involves balls.” They shuddered slightly.

“Come on, it’s good healthy exercise. Er, maybe not. How about getting a pedalo? There’s some exercise, but you’re sitting down, too.”

“What the fuck is a pedalo? It sounds like a human we’d have in the seventh circle back home.”

“It’s a boat, a little boat. You make it move by pushing pedals with your feet. Pedal-o, get it?” Gabriel chuckled in a particularly irritating way. “So clever. Earth Observation says it looks like fun.”

“I’m not sure I trust some desk-jockey angel’s idea of fun.”

“Listen, I can’t explain it. You’ll have to trust me. We sit in the boat, paddle around a little, drink some more wine?”

Well, it would shut him up. Beelzebub suspected wine was also not allowed on pedalos, so the prospect of getting the archangel to smuggle some aboard was also appealing. Any time the archangel let his evil flag fly even a little was highly enjoyable.

Then they saw the boats. “No. No way in Heaven. Your head is just there to keep your halo on, isn’t it?”

Gabriel paused by the dock. “I don’t get it. What’s wrong?”

“You want me to get into one of those blue plastic things? With you?” They did not look safe at all, and even if a threat to dignity was the worst that could happen. Beelzebub was not in the mood.

“It looks like fun. Fresh air, good exercise — while sitting, of course — out in the sunshine.”

“It’s a shipwreck waiting to happen, wankwings.”

“Nonsense!”

“When you said ‘a boat,’ I pictured an actual fucking boat. Not a kiddie wading pool with pedals.”

“Oh, don’t worry. Look, all the humans are having fun, and they seem perfectly safe.”

“They’re all kids, or normal-height humans. Not one of them out there is an oversized, fatheaded pillock like you. You’re too tall: you’ll upset the balance.”

Huffing, Gabriel extended his arms in what he probably thought was a conciliatory fashion; instead, he just looked like he was begging to be slugged in the solar plexus. “Earth Observation assured me it was completely safe. There’s no need to be scared, Beelz; I’m here to look out for you.”

_Oooh_.“Scared?” They stalked up to him with all the majesty of a Prince of Hell, jabbing a furious finger at his chest with each phrase: “I am not scared. I am sick of this shit. I don’t want to go out on the water in a stupid little saucer. I don’t want to be here any longer. I don’t want to continue this experiment, and I don’t want to see you any more.” The last jab was with a flat hand, not a finger, and hit Gabriel’s chest in precisely the right spot.

For a long second, he teetered, his violet eyes wide with confusion and that lovely flash of anger. Then, gravity asserted its dominance, and Gabriel fell backward into the lake.

Stomping off back to the bar, pretending they didn’t hear Gabriel’s spluttering and shouts for help and explanation, was far more fun than any pedalo could have been. They might even treat themself to a whole bottle of wine, or maybe one of the ice creams.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I _really_ don't like Gabriel, but I find I rather enjoy seeing Beelzebub be mean to him.


End file.
